Synchronicity
by Joan Milligan
Summary: The Doctor, Romana, time and smut. That is all.


Author's note: This is like porntastic stream of consciousness timey-wimey stuff with Romana in it. Which by default makes it the Best Thing Ever. Agree with me, lowly pawns!

* * *

This is time – the flash between heartbeats, when blood flows from one tip of the body to another, and something is exchanged, smiles, words become more, in perfect synchronicity. Two people who know each other, always alone with each other in the room. Comprehension, like the direct lightning crack between neurons, that forms when the Doctor says something, and Romana comments on it, and instantly they are exactly on the same wavelength and see right into each other, and what they see always thrills them beyond restraint.

Being an immortal world-saving wanderer isn't very easy when you do it alone, and not-alone becomes very hard to come by, the more you see, live and know.

But there are these moments in time that they have – increasingly often, as they wear into each other like sunlight into cloth – when they know that beyond the witty repartee, their innermost insides become bear to one another, and what they see there is very beautiful.

This is time, in the afternoon sun on the Eye of Orion, when Romana comments that this place is even more peaceful and pastoral than the finest gardens of Gallifrey, and the Doctor pleasantly agrees, and they both get up and start marching purposefully towards the TARDIS. He reaches out, by the door, and takes her hand, and their gazes glance over each other, the bubblings of humor, the spider-thread of shared association, shared experience, shared truth. And _this_ is time as she leans against the TARDIS wall and he cups her face and kisses her, full, deep, low, complete.

This is time, and these are Time Lords, as the kiss goes on for however long a pair of respiratory bypass systems can allow, but this is only the tip of the iceberg, really, because below the fleshy surface there are currents of Mind and Joy that stir in tandem, reaching out and searching for each other, safe in the totality of the bond. They are joyful, with the simple joy of living, and they communicate it in the thousand nuances of a touch. The silky-cool smoothness of her thoughts, unraveling over the countless colors of his memories, as she brushes his hands, rough with years, the pale radiance of her skin lights up at him mirrored in her eyes, she licks the faint scar on his lip, tasting the richness of his texture. His mind is made of a thousand things and they are all joy, joy that blazes because she is there.

This is time, in the teasing that happens, familiar and mundane, because one fathom deeper they are completely in each other already and their bodies only do what's happening to their minds anyway. She winds his scarf off. There's always a scarf joke. Eager today, she slips beneath his coat, and his hair tickles her neck as his breath is suddenly under her blouse. Separating veils fall away. What does she desire today? His hands are slow – he knows exactly that she's been thinking about his palm on her breastbone for a week now, as patient as only a Time Lady can be, and he takes his time getting there because it makes her whimper – it makes her joy glow golden in the place where they know each other perfectly. Her hips are against his and she reaches in and plays a little with the nerves leading up to his cock, pleasing herself from inside and outside. It's so easy when they let everything that's between them fall away.

They aren't exhibitionists. Their joy is their own, a little too fierce for the cosmos at large to deal with, so they end up back in the TARDIS, falling through the door with arms entangled. K-9 makes himself scarce. The time rotor whirrs delicately. The Doctor's scarf is caught in the door. Romana tugs on it, leaving him to lean back against the console and sigh to himself, musing about the consistency of minor interruptions and how they haven't been to a proper vacation in ages. He'll take her to Paris. Why don't he take her to Paris right now? Romana agrees that that's an excellent idea, so they start setting the coordinates, not by the book. They're both doing it one handed. Romana unbuttons the Doctor's pants, leaving his poet shirt. She likes his poet shirt, though he could not make a very good poet. He kisses her, every part of her, because he loves them all. He keeps his lips on her button nose, lowers his head to her small breasts, his hand is large and coarse in her smooth sun-yellow hair. Distracted, she tries to listen to the time rotor.

It's his TARDIS, he's everywhere.

He picks her up as if she was nothing at all and runs his tongue around the center of her stomach, where a human would be marked by natural birth. But she is a Time Lady; as she closes up around him, hands on his neck, legs straddling him, her forehead touching the top of his head, she takes all his strength into her, and the TARDIS's too, curled and pulsing with pleasure from her center. Her feet are small, her arms are thin, and he lets himself be held. Half-seated on the console, she parts the poet shirt. His chest is slick already, sweat from the work of the mind. Re-forming the bond, their thoughts entwine around the column of the TARDIS' power, weaving the Vortex into the spiral that's taking them higher with every breath.

This is time – the crackling of the Vortex, the tingling and teasing of possibilities in every movement they make. Are her hands on his back now, working over the broad muscles, or slipping down his chest, along the faint line of hair down to his abdomen, and further down yet? Does he nuzzle her neck tenderly, or takes savage kisses so entirely unlike Gallifreyan refinement, does he claim her mouth – once, twice, half a hundred times in half a minute? Time is liquid and hot, stretched between them, precious, Romana is all these things at once, laughing and gasping, shuddering in her pleasure and muttering a soft, secret name into the Doctor's shoulder. The TARDIS dances with her Doctor, and he can go on forever, being everywhere, pleasuring every nerve in its own time.

They are too deep in each other to know that they are naked. Only time and pleasure remain. It takes a year for the Doctor's tongue to travel from between Romana's breasts down to her sex, tracing a timeline of writhing, warm joy in his path, and he breathes her in with both respiratory systems, taking no other air. She smells of animal heat, of flesh, of blood, of _present._ He probes her with his tongue, her taste making his groin jerk, all instinct, all joy without the need for thought. Fully in her mind, he feels the minute shifting of muscles inside her, each their own little shudder of need, and she arches her back, feeling the mounting tightness in his cock that is also hers now, within and without, as he rises to press against her. Romana whimpers. She always whimpers when she feels him, near and hard. She slips out of her time-skin, and lives overwhelmingly in the instant in which he enters her.

And then they are so deeply, so completely inside each other that for however long – only the TARDIS knows for sure – they forget even their names.

This is time, the slow and deliberate rhythm that obeys and leads on the time rotor, that traces the revolutions of the Vortex. Romana's nipples spasm as they brush the Doctor's chest, her hand opens and closes in his hair, her deep, wet folds take him in as far as he would go. The Doctor's breath is heavy, hot, almost solid on Romana's neck, his hips slide against her, bone kissing bone, his cock shuddering. And neither of them is sure who they are exactly, where their pleasure ends and the other's begins, because pleasure ends nowhere. In their minds are galaxies, eons. They move against each other, picking the rhythm up, playing with it, dragging it out, matching to their heartbeats, to the birth and deaths of suns, the coming and going of civilizations, and between them is nothing but joy that needs nothing else, nothing but being contained between them, until at precisely the same nano-second, they spasm together, stifling a cry, and mind, flesh, joy and pleasure become one and the same.

And this is time – chests moving slowly, fingers at rest, facing each other, down on the console room floor, which is not cold at all, too spent to even dream, but not too spent to touch, breathing to the same ticking of the same clock.

Time slows to a peaceful still. The universe rests, fulfilled. Galaxies return to their proper turning, minds part slowly, content to wait for the next chance meeting. The TARDIS coordinates are set for Paris.


End file.
